The Mirror
The mirror stood dead. Oscar's small chest contained a bird, soaring and plummeting within restless beats. He gripped the bedsheets closer to his freckled snout, inhaling the sterile scent of this children's home of strays. Rescued from his parents' viciousness, he sank further beneath the implied security of the thin sheets, realizing he'd simply been taken from one cage to another.
The small bedroom was colored only by the black of darkness and the bluish-white of moonlight slanting through the slits in the blinds. Oscar's toes recoiled from the rough, aged carpet as he swung his thin legs over the edge of his borrowed bed. The limited furniture seemed like fake antiques - antiques like what his grandmother had, before she died - and fake, for who would trust anything valuable to unwanted children.
The mirror cried, encaged within its cheap frame. Oscar's greyed golden eyes scanned the emptiness of the room and moon, until he found it: a large vertical pane floating in the northeasternmost corner, mostly facing the wall, as if it were hiding a secret.
Curiosity sparked within him, moving from eyes to heart, then to fingertips. He embraced the heavy frame and tugged, but it wouldn’t budge. Staining his hands against his pyjamas, as if ridding himself of his former identity of weakness, he dusted off the old grime, then tried again. Daring to contact the coarse carpet, he turned his feet sideways and pushed against his soles; with newfound traction, he dragged the mirror from its corner - kidnapping it in that small instant - and all the stolen instances afterward.
Now exposed under the cold light, the glass seemed more imposing than before, standing a foot taller than young Oscar, who was sat upon the cusp of adolescence, yet without his body accepting that truth. He stood on tiptoes, puffed out his chest, feeling an almost strict appraisal by the object. After a moment of pretending, he felt silent defeat and let his feet lay flat, and gazed at his reflection. Oscar's mane brushed against his twin's, their mouths almost touching within a kissing distance before snapping back; glistening, painful truth where his eyes had lived.
He licked his lips and looked down to his naked feet, then back up, away from them and against the veil and secrecy of darkness. He didn't want his reflection to see him cry, and as his tears were released, he tilted his head back in surrender. Within this angle, the confession of tears fell sideways and joined the hair covering his ears.
Above his then hanged head, an almost imperceptible slit cut into the glass, clean and smooth; even the mirror hadn’t felt the incision, for it hadn't cried this time. Moments of Oscar's quiet sobs ensued before the slit grew rectangular against the entire outside of the glass, spilling warm orange light, like blood from a quarry. Oscar blinked hard, fighting the urge to look away, his tears drying within the divinity of the moment. Inside the incision, his reflection became distorted, wavering like a shimmering sea.
It felt beautifully painful, to look at something that shouldn't exist. As he stared, he reached forward, expecting his fingertips to burn white as they pressed against the solid glass. Yet, as his soft pads touched the orange sheet, no physical connection was made - they simply moved straight through, as if the boyish barrier had vanished entirely between him and his mirror self.
Oscar gasped and jerked his hand back, his heart electric with the sudden distortion of reality. He turned his head away, unwilling to accept the mirror's strange ways; yet the warmth from where his hand had crossed, lingered, beckoned him with a heavenly aura, whispered promises of safety and freedom unto the other side.
His tears gone but still still tingling, like his fragile fingers, Oscar clutched the hem of his pyjama shirt with both hands, fearful that he might fall apart. He tried to muster his courage and simply jump through - make his next unthinking movement - but hesitation gripped him. He didn't want to die, and crossing this void felt like jumping from a plane without a parachute.
After a coiled, tentative moment, he stretched his right foot nearer the void, as if testing the temperature beyond the glass, leaving it bathed in orange light as it crossed the precipice and floated without feeling any contact at all. Oscar pulled it back and breathed deep in heavy intervals.
He closed his hands into fists and gathered his courage, even if it were a pretence, and moved his foot once more, but this time in a more bounding motion.
Grass, like the lawns of his forgotten home, yet without the pain of home, stretched beneath him, soft and welcoming. It was squashed down by his foot and exploded with comfort, tickling the spaces between his toes. A shameless, cautious smile forced its way onto Oscar's face as his body shook with emotion. He squeezed his eyes shut, hiding their golden hues, and gained a fool's bravery in their blindness.
He felt all the pain of this world shadowed upon his flesh as he tried to swallow it, and allowed himself the hope of being saved, one last time. A small, excited grunt escaped his lips as he leapt the remainder of his self through the transcendental door.
Everything felt beautiful. Even Oscar's held breath; his breath that had been halted for a long time, but now was hanged without the fear of dying. The air was alive, infused with a sweet, fragrant essence that felt free and exhilarating. Powerless dreams perched upon his eyelashes, desperate to fall yet equally afraid. But as Oscar's eyes opened to this new world, the tears emptied down his blemishless cheeks, as if his misery was shedding its skin, and in their descent, transformed into something beautiful too.
Any guilt that usually accompanied his tears dissipated into the soothing breeze that stroked his bare ankles and kissed away thoughts of returning home.
Behind him, the mirror's shape began to warp, fade; the world behind it retreating into the shadows until it closed entirely - leaving him alone in this new place - a place that felt like a dream he had long yearned for. A dream that made him afraid of sleep, for fear of dying to its fleetingness.
